


Death of a Love Letter

by sgamadison



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-15
Updated: 2012-04-15
Packaged: 2017-11-03 17:19:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/383951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sgamadison/pseuds/sgamadison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They weren't really the "I love you" types.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Death of a Love Letter

“Dear John,” it began.

“Funny how odd it feels to even type those very words. I mean, when you think about it, writing styles have changed with the advent of email and other forms of communication. We as individuals probably write more than ever before in the history of civilization, but we say less. You have to wonder if the very ease of composing a letter in Word or drafting a response to an email has altered the very fabric of communication itself—what we say and think and are willing to commit to paper. We are better at keeping up with friends and family than ever before. We’re on Facebook and LJ and Twitter and we email each other funny Youtube videos or stupid jokes (and chain letters, don’t get me started on _that_ ) and it doesn’t matter if the people we care about are in Canada or England or even Pegasus, for crying out loud. But so much of what we say is in a public forum or can be accessed by others, given enough motivation. And as a result, it tends to be shallow or constrained by the 100 word limit placed on the forum. (Who the hell can convey anything of any real value in less than a 100 words anyway?) We are a people of shorthand now. Catch phrases, IMHO, oh and BTW, we’ve become a society of snippet communicators. 

Sometimes it is easy to forget that a blog is read by lots of other people, and you feel really stupid when you discover you’ve shouted your feelings to the world. Sometimes the act of expressing private thoughts and feelings in word form makes you feel vulnerable, because the security of those emotions isn’t necessarily guaranteed in this high tech world. It got me wondering recently what that’s done to our ability to communicate and whether or not any such thing as a love letter even exists any more.

Because I wanted to take this time to tell you a few things that I think are important. That I’m finding it incredibly difficult to do so in person is beside the point. Am I blathering? I think I am. Well. Okay. To the point, then.

I love just hanging out with you. Yep. I don’t know exactly when that happened. I mean, you went from someone that I admired and respected (and yes, thought was hot from the very beginning, happy now?) to someone who I want to spend nearly all my free time with. You make me laugh and even better, think I’m funny too. You make me try new foods (which, given the fact that food can _kill_ me, says a lot about your power of persuasion over me and my pathetic need to do things to please you) and I am surprised at how often I enjoy them. I love hanging out and watching television with you. You’re smart and interesting and damn fine to look at, a hobby of mine that has grown all out of proportion over time. 

I love the way you hate having your picture taken, despite being one of the most photogenic persons I’ve ever met. I love the fact that you love to read and have been known to knock off a book in an evening (despite the silly pretense that you’re still reading _War and Peace_ , what, are you up to page twenty now?) I love the way your hair feels underneath my fingers, surprisingly soft, not at all what I would expect, given the fact that on most days, a startled hedgehog would be an apt description. No, that’s not fair. I love your hair. I love the fact that you don’t seem to notice I have less hair myself each year, or that you seem blind to my grossly obvious flaws. Or the fact that when I point out said flaws, you look charmingly confused and then offer to point out (largely imaginary) flaws of your own. The sight of you trying to duplicate my own significant belly roll, catching your flesh in your hands and trying to make me think you’ve got some pudge, still makes me smile. I _love_ your belly. 

I love waking up next to you. Despite the fact, that one or the other of us has to get up early and tiptoe back to our own lives before the rest of the city stirs. In fact, I love to wake up early so that I can reach out and touch you, knowing that I still have a little while longer to linger. I _love_ touching you. I love running my hands across your body, the familiarity of your bicep, the strength in your shoulder, the heat of your skin and the way there seems to be a groove from your waist down across your opposite hip where my arm was meant to lie. I love the way you place my hand over your cock on those mornings and the way you feel in between my fingers, pulsing when I touch you, sending a corresponding jolt of sensation through me. 

I love the fact that you snore. It’s not as bad as you think it is, and yet every time I wake up to the sound of you snoring, I smile because it is a reminder that you’re real, you’re there and that for the moment, nothing else in the universe matters. I probably get less sleep since I’ve started sharing your bed, but I’ve never minded anything less. I love even more resting my head on your chest and hearing the sound of your heartbeat. Steady, strong, reliable. Not fast and excitable like mine. Something I can count on.

I love the way you strut your stuff in the mornings. The little show you put on when you get up and get ready for your run with Ronon. You know I’m watching and I have to smother a laugh into the pillow as you wander in and out of the bathroom, stark naked, cock jutting out proudly as you open drawers and select clothing and check me out to see if I’m noticing and could be enticed into getting up and doing something about it. And since you are so very hard to resist, I often find myself being drawn into your ridiculous seduction schemes, which results in the two of us being very late for work and smelling of sex. Sometimes I hate taking a shower when I come back to my quarters, because I don’t want to wash away the scent of you just yet.

Which brings me to your cock. Which I have to say is as beautiful and perfect as the rest of you. No, seriously, I may not have a ton of examples on which to make a comparison, but your cock is a work of art. I love how it stands up straight as an arrow when aroused, perfectly symmetrical and pleasing to the eye. And the mouth. There are times when I simply _must_ have your cock in my mouth and I feel as though I can’t get enough of it, the lovely thickness of it, the balance of the smooth, soft head, the way you taste and smell and the way you feel. If I moan (and that’s moaning, not _whimpering_ , no matter what you say), it’s because I can’t get enough of your cock. Either in my mouth or pushing up against me or inside of me.

And then there’s _your_ mouth. The things you do with that mouth. I love how your tongue can express your desires, be it lingering, slow kisses or urgent, hot thrusts. I love what your tongue and teeth do to me. I can go from comfortable touching to white-hot arousal in minutes under the influence of your mouth. Your mouth on my nipples is like a pipeline straight to my cock and I go a little insane—I want everything at once. Your mouth on my neck, my nipples, my cock, your cock inside of me. The heavy weight of your body on top of me, the way you lean into me and the sound of your breathing after you come. The pleasure I get from knowing that I brought you to this point. I love holding you like that, running my hands up and down the length of your body, feeling the sweat on your skin and the pulse of your cock still within me.

I feel guilty at times; it seems like everything is about me. You know just how to exact every last ounce of pleasure from my body; you have me writhing and crying out from the sheer ecstasy of your touch. Might I point out here that you have a somewhat unfair advantage? Okay, so I’m noisy and vocal during sex. Surprised? I worry sometimes that I cannot reciprocate to the same degree because you on the other hand are so very quiet. And it is important to me that I give back as much as you give me. Very important.

I love the way you always do the right thing. Even if the right thing is wrong for _you_. I know in my heart that someday you’ll be taken from me. I’d like to think it would be against your will, but I know that doing the right thing will always take precedence. I’ve tried to prepare myself for that eventuality but I find myself making deals with a God that I don’t necessarily believe in that you will live in each of these scenarios. I think I could deal with almost any form of you leaving me if it meant you were still alive. If that makes me irritable and distant at times, please know that I am only guarding my heart against the inevitable loss of you.

Because it would seem logical to conclude, that since I love so many things about you that I love _you_ , yourself. I know, I know. We aren’t exactly the ‘I love you” types, are we? Perhaps because we’ve said it before, and it didn’t work out. Perhaps because this is all still very new and because we aren’t really free to express how we really feel. But not, I think, because we don’t feel strongly about each other. And here, in this moment in time, if nowhere else, I want you to know how I feel about you…”

“Hey Rodney,” John’s voice startled him. He closed his body protectively around the laptop as John continued to speak. “Whatcha doing?”

"Nothing much,” Rodney said shortly, hitting the ‘x’ button on the corner of the Word document.

The prompt “ _save draft?_ ” came up as John was saying, “So, you want to grab something to eat and maybe watch a movie?”

“Sure,” Rodney said easily, clicking on ‘no’ and shutting the laptop. “Sounds good to me.”

_~fin~_


End file.
